I know a magic woodland with grassy rides that ring
To strange fantastic music and whirr of elfin wing,
There all the oaks and beeches, moss-mantled to the knees,
Are really fairy princes pretending to be trees.
I know a magic moorland with wild winds drifting by,
And pools among the peat-hags that mirror back the sky;
And there in golden bracken the fronds that toss and turn
Are really little people pretending to be fern.
I wander in the woodland, I walk the magic moor;
Sometimes I meet with fairies, sometimes I'm not so sure;
And oft I pause and wonder among the green and gold
If I am not a child again--pretending to be old.